


A Thousand Miles

by spire_cx



Category: Infinite (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spire_cx/pseuds/spire_cx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>on the night of Infinite's five-year anniversary, Hoya looks back on the past and forward to the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Miles

Five years.

Hoya's never been a fan of anniversaries. They seem so arbitrary. There's no intrinsic meaning in a year, or five, or ten. He feels no different today than he did yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that.

It seems arbitrary, and perhaps it is. But he's looking at all the people who helped these five years come to pass as they did, and for the first time he understands that arbitrary doesn't necessarily mean pointless. Maybe it's not just about marking another year on the calendar, he thinks. Maybe it's about stopping to remember the road you've traveled, and taking a moment to look forward to the future.

He feels stupid for not realizing this sooner.

Their new house is modest but still big enough for a party, and tonight it's bustling with some of those who've helped them achieve their success. Of course, it's only a fraction of the people they owe thanks to. The list is endless and growing every day, and includes first and foremost all their fans: hundreds of thousands of people scattered across the world whose names and faces Hoya can't even begin to guess at.

He's standing alone in the kitchen and rearranging a platter of crackers, making sure the rows are neat. In the next room he can see Sungjong talking animatedly with their stylists; somewhere, Sungyeol is telling a joke, and Woohyun is laughing.

When they began they were all just teenagers, barely out of high school, naive, headstrong, and reckless. They were all just taking bets that this would work, that they would be able to come together and make it happen. There were days Hoya thought they couldn't. There were fights, flops, and failures; there were notes they couldn't reach and moves they couldn't hit.

But they've come this far, against all odds. Five years ago, he wouldn't have been able to foresee them here. This was the best of all possible outcomes, and back then he did not have the audacity to hope for so much. He was too young; things were far off, and draped in fog, and thoughts of the future frightened him. It was too uncertain to dare try to predict.

And yet here they are, five years and four albums in, with no end in sight. They do well; they're loved; they're happy. They live in a new house with an apple tree in the front yard. It's almost surreal. He can't imagine anywhere he'd rather be.

Well, actually, he'd rather this party be over. He's exhausted, and doesn't feel like talking anymore. He only has so much energy for social interaction, and he's been running on empty for the past hour. He wants to just sit and think for awhile—and it's hot in here besides.

He makes his way through the crowd of people, weaving toward the stairs. Sunggyu touches his arm as he passes. "Where are you going?" he asks.

"Changing my shirt. It's hot down here."

Sunggyu narrows his eyes. "Don't be a bad host, Lee Howon."

Hoya puts his hands up. "I'll be right back," he says, and Sunggyu lets him go.

It's blissfully quiet and cool upstairs. In the darkness, yellow light spills from an open door at the end of the hall: Dongwoo's room.

Inside, the large window is open wide to the night. Dongwoo is sitting in front of it on his new sofa, reading in the golden halo of a small lamp. He's done his hair in an asymmetric sweep and put on subtle makeup for the party; his tie and collar are undone and beside him lies his discarded suit jacket. He's just sitting there reading in his still-unpacked bedroom, but he looks like he's posing for a photo. It's not fair how casually, unintentionally beautiful he is.

Dongwoo looks up. Seeing Hoya in the doorway, his lips curl into a warm smile. "Hi," he says.

"Hey." Hoya walks in, knowing Dongwoo would never refuse him entry. "What are you doing up here?"

"Got too hot."

"Yeah. Me too." He puts his hands in his pockets. "What are you reading?"

Dongwoo smiles down at the notebook in his hands. "Just an old diary." He turns it over and looks at the date penned neatly on the front. "2012." He thumbs through the notebook, and the dry, stiff pages make soft crinkling sounds that cut through the darkness pooling in the corners of the room.

Dongwoo's diaries. He's written in them every day since before they met. Inside them are thousands of days, evidence of all the hours they lived together. Somewhere in one of his diaries is the day of their debut. Somewhere are the days of their first release, their first concert, and their first win. Somewhere in them are all their anniversaries before this one, and all the insignificant days in between: the day they stuffed themselves on _okonomiyaki_ in Japan; the day Woohyun broke his ankle playing baseball; the day they went to their manager's wedding and laid in the grass under the magnolias; the day Dongwoo kissed him in the hallway at karaoke, bold and brave and buzzing with desire in the technicolor light.

The past doesn't exist anymore. Their memories—mutable, impermanent, and incomplete—are the only proof they have that those days happened at all. But here's Dongwoo, stubborn and strong-willed, refusing to let them slip away into oblivion.

Years ago, Hoya might have wondered what he was hanging on to, and why. Tonight, though, he realizes he understands: because he's defined by those days, too, and all the emotions they inspired in him.

"Time goes by fast, doesn't it?" he says.

"Hmm. Kind of." Dongwoo shrugs. "It kind of feels like I've known you my whole life. It's hard to remember what living was like, before Infinite."

Hoya's never really thought about that before, but it's true. There was childhood, and then only this—only Infinite.

He walks over and sits down. Dongwoo holds the diary out to him.

"I can't read that. It's yours."

"It's yours too," he says, and throws Hoya a lingering glance.

It's been a long time since they've been together like this: completely alone, and outside the magic circles of their Infinite identities. Like this, they're just two people in the dark, showing their cards to each other through subtleties—and Dongwoo has never been one to play them close to the chest.

It's been a long time since Hoya was last confronted with the wide, straightforward spread of Dongwoo's feelings.

He looks down into his lap and picks a stray thread from his pants.

"Where do you think we'll be in another five years?" he asks.

Dongwoo seems to think hard about the question, staring down at his feet as if in deep concentration. "I don't know. Together, hopefully."

It's possible—maybe even probable—that Infinite will no longer exist in five years, or won't exist as they know it now. They both know that; neither of them has to say it. But Hoya knows that's not exactly what Dongwoo means. He's not talking about Infinite. He's talking about the two of them.

Years ago, Hoya would have been frightened by the thought of their future. He'd have been scared by the possibility of Dongwoo changing, of his own feelings waning, of their drifting apart. But right now, he's looking at Dongwoo as he sits in the low yellow light—looking at the line of his collar across the back of his neck, the shape of his shoulder blades beneath his shirt, his pale lips pink like foxglove—and he knows he has nothing to be afraid of.

He's going to change. Sometimes Hoya can see it in the way he stands, or the way he moves, or the way he furrows his brow when he's upset: heart-stopping glimpses of the man he's going to become. He'll become more patient, more world-wise, less forgiving, less soft. His body will change. He'll look less like a statue and more like himself; his flaws will gradually start to outnumber his perfections. He'll move differently. Perhaps it will be less eager and more potent, as he learns more about himself, as he moves out into the world around him.

Perhaps. And maybe, someday, things will change between them; maybe, gradually, other things will become more important. 

That's okay. Because Dongwoo will always be Dongwoo, no matter how much things change. He'll always smile that smile, and Hoya can't imagine the day will ever come where he won't find it beautiful.

Things between them will always be okay. They have to be. He'd never let them be any other way.

Beside him, Dongwoo laughs.

"What?" Hoya asks.

"Nothing. I was just thinking something lame."

Hoya raises an eyebrow. Dongwoo looks up at him, laughs again, and turns away, holding the back of his hand against his lips.

"It's stupid," Dongwoo chuckles, the apples of his cheeks beginning to redden with a blush. "I just... I was just thinking that I like knowing you. Well, 'like' isn't really the right word. Ahh, I dunno how to say it, it's weird." He pauses to laugh at himself again. "I told you it's stupid. The point is, I just like you."

Above them, the frog-shaped _fuurin_ wind chime Dongwoo bought in Japan sings its understated melody in the breeze. Downstairs the front door opens and closes; someone walks under the apple tree and gets into their car.

"I mean, I like you a lot," Dongwoo says, his voice soft and low. "You already know that, though."

He does know—has known for many years. But somehow, as he watches him blushing in the darkness, all the years between them are starting to melt away. Yesterday, tomorrow, today: suddenly they don't matter so much; suddenly they're no longer scary. Because they're all there, in his smile, in the horizon of his shoulders, in the way he moves his hands. They've always been there.

What the hell has he been doing for so long?

Dongwoo's hand is laying between them. Hoya reaches out and takes it in both of his own. 

Dongwoo doesn't respond. He sits perfectly still and keeps his gaze turned down.

Hoya runs his fingers across Dongwoo's palm, feeling the swell of muscle, bone, and sinew beneath his skin. Dongwoo's wearing all his rings, and they're warm with the heat of his body. He offers no resistance when Hoya begins to slide them slowly off, one-by-one. His hand is weak and yielding to Hoya's touch, and the rings slip freely from his fingers into Hoya's grasp.

"What are you thinking about?" Dongwoo whispers, breathless.

Years ago, Hoya would have lied: lied, or not answered, or veiled the truth in an insult, anything to avoid dredging his feelings up from their place at bottom of the sea. They were safe down there, where they could not threaten to muddy his waters with their imprecision. For years he's inspected them from this safe and sterile distance, trying to feel things out, trying to decide how wide he wants the space between the two of them. But years of investigation later, he still doesn't have an answer.

Perhaps, he realizes, these feelings will never be clear, neat, or classifiable. And perhaps the fact that he's still trying to classify them is answer enough.

"You," he says.

The corners of Dongwoo's lips turn up in a shy smile. "What about me?"

"Everything," he says, and it's true. "The person you used to be. The person you're going to become."

Dongwoo laughs, though it sounds a bit sad, and beneath the fringe of hair falling across his face Hoya can see him blushing bright pink.

"Aish. Don't say such charming things to me."

Hoya knows there's more to that sentiment, but Dongwoo leaves the rest unsaid.

"What are _you_ thinking about?" Hoya asks.

Dongwoo pauses for a long moment. He stares down at their hands and the way Hoya is running his thumb back and forth across his knuckles.

"You," Dongwoo says, softly.

"What about me?"

Dongwoo looks up, daring to meet Hoya's gaze, and in his eyes it's stunningly clear: all his dedication, admiration, and gratitude; all the unshakable devotion he can't put into words.

Five years of feelings shoved into a box. Five years of waiting and hoping. 

"Everything," Dongwoo says.

And suddenly Hoya understands it all: how cruel he's been, how much time he's wasted, how unfair it all is; how little he'll suffer for any of it; how badly he wishes he could make up for his mistakes. 

He reaches out and puts a hand on the back of Dongwoo's neck.

A shiver runs up Dongwoo's spine; Hoya leans forward. Dongwoo looks at him for one breathtaking moment, sighs quietly, and lets his eyes fall closed. And Hoya kisses him.

First he is tentative and gentle, just pressing his lips against Dongwoo's. They're every bit as soft as they look, satiny and smooth like snapdragons, and it's everything he's imagined and more. He feels Dongwoo's breath snaking down his neck, hot and dewy.

First he is tentative but then he is bold, kissing him deeper, slipping his tongue between Dongwoo's lips as he feels his heart racing under the surface of his skin. Dongwoo's mouth is hot, and tastes like the ginger candies in the bowl downstairs. For a moment he's pliant, letting Hoya lick along his lips and slide their tongues together. Then, as if suddenly realizing this isn't a dream, Dongwoo starts to kiss him back, and it's the most perfect thing in the world—so undeniably him, soft and sweet and overeager as he moves his mouth against Hoya's and sucks on his tongue.

They were both drunk the first time they did this. It was sloppy and strange; Hoya pushed him away and told him that they couldn't, and that was the end of it. Dongwoo said nothing and did not try again—perhaps assumed his interest was not reciprocated. And maybe it wasn't, at least not with as much clarity as his own.

That was years ago, and Hoya hasn't thought about it in a long time. Maybe if he had they would have gotten here sooner.

It doesn't matter now. 

Dongwoo's hands are moving across Hoya's chest, feeling the hard planes of his body with barely-contained desperation. He gasps against Hoya's lips, and makes small noises every time Hoya pushes deeper or lets him do the same.

When Dongwoo pulls away he's breathing hard. On his face is a pained expression, as if he's holding back tears.

"I've been waiting for you," he says, his voice tremulous and thin. "I've never stopped waiting, I swear, Hoya."

And the challenge is immense, to make that wait worth it—to make all the years of missed chances seem a small price to pay.

"I know," Hoya says. "I'm sorry. I'm here."

Dongwoo takes Hoya in his arms and buries his face in his shoulder. "Took you long enough," he chokes out.

"I know."

His embrace is crushing, and he's trembling with all the frustration and suffering he can finally release. Hoya turns his head and kisses his ear; Dongwoo shudders and holds him tighter.

"Should I close the door?" Dongwoo asks.

Hoya stops and listens to the distant din of the party downstairs: music, conversation, the fridge closing, Sunggyu's bright and brilliant laughter. Above them Dongwoo's ceramic frog chimes softly, and outside, the wind sighs in the apple tree.

"No," he says. He pulls Dongwoo close, and kisses him again.


End file.
